


Not my son.

by ununpentium



Series: Hamish Watson-Holmes [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Homophobia, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-30
Updated: 2011-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-26 17:37:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ununpentium/pseuds/ununpentium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn't want to do this any more, not after Hamish gets hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not my son.

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hamish](https://archiveofourown.org/works/329656) by [Valeria2067](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/pseuds/Valeria2067). 



> I kind of want to apologise for hurting Hamish. This fic wanted to be written, so I wrote it.
> 
> The Hamish Watson-Holmes series is a series of vignettes inspired by Valeria2067's Hamish. They are written as my muse inspires me, and may or may not eventually follow a bigger story arc.

~*~*~

John and Sherlock were cuddled up together on the sofa watching QI. John was trying to get Sherlock to be quiet long enough to actually hear Stephen Fry ask the questions; Sherlock was babbling about their latest case.

“Sherlock! Shut it. It’s illegal to talk over Stephen Fry.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yeah, well I’ll ask Mycroft to change that.”

John poked Sherlock in the ribs and Sherlock twisted and squirmed.

“You know that tickles!”

John laughed by way of reply and continued his ruthless attack on Sherlock. Neither of them heard the front door open, or the footsteps on the stairs until the door to the flat flew open. John leapt off of the sofa at what he saw.

Hamish was standing framed in the doorway, his head slightly bowed, blood caked down his face from a cut on his forehead and one on the bridge of his nose. Spatters of blood flecked his shirt and his trousers were covered in mud.

“Hal, fuck, what happened? I’m calling an ambulance.” John scrambled to find his mobile phone.

“Don’t, Dad. It’s worse than it looks. I’m fine.” Hamish wouldn’t meet John’s eyes. Sherlock rose from the sofa and silently observed Hamish; his eyes taking in the pattern of blood spatter on his shirt, the type of mud on his shoes and trousers and the wounds on his face.

“Hamish-” Sherlock started to speak but Hamish cut him off.

“Just leave it, Father. I know you’ve worked out what happened but I’m not in the mood to talk, okay?” Hamish moved gingerly into the kitchen where he rummaged through the cupboards for paracetamol and the first aid box. “And Dad, I can look after this myself.” Hamish grabbed the tablets and the first aid box and climbed the stairs to the bathroom where he locked himself inside.

John let out a shaky breath.

“Sherlock? Tell me what you worked out.”

Sherlock stepped forward and encircled his arms around John, soothing himself as much as John.

“I know from the type of mud on his trousers that he was nearby The King’s Arms, and his injuries and pattern of blood spatter are consistent with being attacked by at least two people taller than him.”

John drew back and sat down heavily on the sofa, swallowing thickly.

“Why? So at least two people attacked our son. Why would they do that? Hal’s the least offensive person you could ever meet.”

“I’m sorry John, I don’t know that part. I’ll call Mycroft immediately and get him to pull up the CCTV footage.”

~*~*~

Ten minutes later and Sherlock and John were crowded around John’s laptop, watching the grainy footage. John had seen truly horrific things during his tour in Afghanistan, but nothing prepared him for the sight of his son being attacked by a gang of youths outside the pub.

“Sherlock, for the love of god, turn that off.” John swiped at his eyes, blinking furiously. He stormed over to the already battered and bullet peppered wall and punched it, shouting as he did so.

Sherlock restrained him from behind until John stopped struggling and went boneless in his arms.

“I don’t know what to do. They hurt our son, Sherlock. Our _son_.”

“Getting angry won’t change what has already happened. I’ll call Lestrade and show him the footage, but we need to speak to Hamish first. He might not want to press charges.” John took a deep breath and turned to look at Sherlock.

“Why aren’t you upset? Or angry? How can you just stand there so fucking calmly?”

Sherlock closed his eyes.

“I see dead bodies almost daily. I know of all the creative and brutal ways that a person can be murdered. I also know that our son walked through the door earlier _alive_ and not seriously hurt. Of course I’m upset, but when I think of how much worse it could have been, I am incredibly relieved.”

Sherlock opened his eyes again to see John standing defeated before him, shoulders shaking as he cried silently.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I’m sorry-”

Sherlock moved closer to John, took his hand and kissed it over and over.

~*~*~

Two hours later, Hamish came downstairs to find his parents sitting in the dark, pressed up against each other on the sofa.

“Dad?”

John extended his arm towards Hamish.

“Come here, Hal. Tell us what happened.”

Hamish curled up in between Sherlock and John on the sofa just as he did when he was a small child, which made Sherlock’s chest ache with sadness.

“Father told you I was beaten up?”

“Yes. And Mycroft sent the CCTV footage, but there was no sound, so we don’t know anything else.” Sherlock rested his hand lightly on Hamish’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to tell you this. I just. I was outside waiting for Bradley when these lads appeared; they were drunk and leery, shouting about how much I looked like Father and that he was responsible for putting one of their mates in prison. Something about a gold chain and a museum?”

Sherlock winced. He remembered the case vividly. It seemed like an open and shut robbery from a museum at first, but had led to a much bigger underground network of violent criminals. Sherlock and John had fed information to Lestrade, ensuring that they were all arrested and sent to prison.

“They were pretty angry and said that they were sending you a message. They attacked me and laughed about it, saying my poof of a Dad wouldn’t be a threat to them.”

John’s left hand clenched into a fist.

“They won’t fucking know what hit them when I’m through with them,” John ground out through clenched teeth.

“No, leave it Dad. If you go after them then they’ll only find another way to retaliate. It’s pointless.”

“Will you let me ring Lestrade, at least?” Sherlock asked softly.

“Yeah. I suppose. Can it wait until morning? I’m pretty tired.”

“Of course.”

Hamish extracted himself from between his parents and left them alone in the darkness of the sitting room.

“I can’t do this anymore Sherlock.” John whispered. “Seeing the two people I love the most in this world get hurt feels like having a knife plunged into my heart. If what we do endangers you and Hamish then I’m not sure I want to do it anymore.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Sussex, John. Buy a little cottage by the sea. Maybe now is the time to do that.”

A tear rolled its way down Sherlock’s cheek and he was thankful that they were still sitting in the dark.

“Yes. I think it’s time.”


End file.
